


The First Mother's Day

by MechanicalMomo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B fluff, Baby Watson, Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Lockson, Locksonary, M/M, Sherlock being an awkwardly sweet baby, The Lockson Network's First Writer's Event, basically S303E03 HLV doesn't exist, domestic!lock, jamlock, lockary, tumblr stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicalMomo/pseuds/MechanicalMomo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gratitude is not only the greatest of the virtues but the parent of all others."--Cicero</p><p>Or, the one where Sherlock can't figure out what to get Mary for her first Mother's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Mother's Day

Sherlock's life is not overly littered with happy moments. Despite his more or less normal childhood (no thanks to Mycroft's constant presence), he cannot say whether or not he was happy as a child. His parents were loving and attentive, if not smothering, and he had fine adventures with Redbeard, but the overwhelming feeling he gets when he thinks back to his younger days is just one of... _existence,_ and nothing more.  
  
He remembers little between the ages of seventeen and nineteen; his introduction to cocaine and other substances saw to that. His immediate dependence was not so much to the drugs themselves as to feeling of...something, anything, of all things suddenly feeling very, _very_ possible.  
  
But he never could have imagined this, and no high could ever compare to what he felt here and now, and every moment since her birth, of staring into Lola Watson's baby-dark blue eyes. There are many things Sherlock is grateful to John and Mary for; innumerable little insignificant things like "I love you's" on the way out the door in the morning, and fewer, much more significant things like, mostly, saving his life, but each time he faces this child, the perfect combination of the two people he loves best in the world, the swell of indebtedness he experiences is unparalleled.  
  
There is nothing he could do, could give, that would properly express his gratefulness, and of course, as luck would have it, Mother's Day is rapidly approaching.  
  
Just his luck.  
  
Things like this had fazed out of his life years ago. It only took up temporary residency in his mind palace once a year when his father called him in the weeks leading up to it to remind him to at least send his mother word, if nothing else, on the appropriate day. And he did, even if it was with the air of someone merely indulging a crazy person's whim. He loved his mother, despite her airy, motherly meddling, but just like with most everything else related to emotion and sentiment, he was very poor at expressing it, and just like with the other few ( _very few_ , thank you very much) things he wasn't very good at, he disliked it just for that fact alone.  
  
But this...this was important, so much more so. His mother had birthed him, and he loved her, but Mary...Mary had helped save him, and brought John back to him when she could have kept him to herself, and beyond all that, had brought this beautiful, trusting child into the world.  
  
 _How on earth did you thank someone for that?_ Nothing would suffice, he knew, but he had to try.  
  
-  
  
He wouldn't stoop to flowers, though he had given the idea more than a moment's thought. Flowers had different meanings, and while he was sure he could find some that could explain what he wanted to get across, flowers were ephemeral, dead before they hit the vase.  
  
John would probably handle the nice dinner, and Sherlock would let him. Even with this... _dynamic_ they had, he knew that that time was for them alone. Besides, there was again the problem of temporariness.  
  
No, he needed something much more permanent.  
  
The idea struck, him, oddly enough, at a crime scene. Hardly auspicious, he smiled victoriously to himself regardless in the light of camera flashes. It still wouldn't be enough (nothing would ever be enough), but it would be a start.  
  
-  
  
Sherlock had stayed holed up in his bedroom in the week leading up to Mother's Day, and on the whole acted very suspicious, though he managed (for the most part) to allay John's fear that he was hiding a body or anything else illegal inside.  
  
He had planned to leave it in such a way, perhaps hidden under her pillow, that would require the least amount of words on his part, but he could never find the right opportunity to sneak upstairs to do so, and is thus reduced to standing awkwardly in their doorway as Mary lays Lola down for a nap, his gift hidden behind his back. Thankfully, John is at the clinic and won't be home till the evening, which makes Sherlock's task slightly more bearable, though not by much.  
  
Catching him in the doorway, Mary smiles as she winds the baby's mobile above her crib.  
  
"Everything alright, Sherlock?"  
  
"Not really," he mutters, coughing a bit as he avoids looking at her confused expression.  
  
"What's that you've got there?" she asks, motioning to where his hands remain firmly clasped around the gift behind his back.  
  
Stammering slightly, he tries to get the words out, but as Mary's brow furrows further in confusion, he gives up with a frustrated sigh and thrusts the gift towards her with a terse "for you."  
  
Stunned, Mary removes the expertly tied ribbon and delicate tissue paper to reveal the photo album underneath.  
  
"Sherlock, is this..." she begins as she opens it, stopping short as her eyes land on the first photo, the only one on it's page, of the moment directly after Lola had been placed in Mary's arms. John is leaning over them, looking as teary as Mary herself, taking in his child's features; her pale blonde hair, like her mother's and her rounded little nose, like her father's.  
  
Breathless, Mary sits herself in the old rocking chair Mrs. Hudson had given them before they brought the baby home. It squeaks a bit, but right now, as she flips through the album's pages, she can't hear it at all.  
  
There are so many pictures, of Lola alone, of Lola with John or Mary or Mrs. Hudson, Lola with Molly and Sally who are giggling and cooing with delight, with Lestrade who looks like he's trying hard to not give in to her baby charm and utterly failing, of Mycroft leaning over her crib with a look that could almost be described as real interest on his face, and even one with her tugging at a grimacing Anderson's beard.  
  
But it's the last one that gets her and has tears spilling over; a picture of Sherlock holding her a few minutes after her birth. Mary had offered her to him, and he had been hesitant, but he had accepted after some urging from John. He holds her nervously, but his sharp blue eyes are locked with hers, and his expression is unlike any she has ever seen on Sherlock's face, the crinkles around his eyes tender and soft as his bottom lip quivers slightly through his awed smile. Underneath the photo, in delicate, swirly script, are the words he spoke at their reception after their first waltz.  
  
She doesn't know what to say.  
  
Noting her tears with alarm, Sherlock hastens to assure her of the album's triviality. As he rambles on, reaching for the book, she stops him with a choked laugh and a raised hand.  
  
"Sherlock, Sherlock," she sniffles. " _It's perfect_. I don't know how to thank you," she says, wiping her eyes and closing the album gently before she stands.  
  
"I...I believe it is I who should be saying that to you," Sherlock mumbles, looking bashful and uneasy. "You have brought more happiness to me than I could ever imagine receiving or deserving. You and John both. I will always be chasing an appropriate response to the love and gratitude I feel for you both. I need not confess that I am no good at this sort of thing, you know it as well as I, but I can spend the rest of my life trying, and--"  
  
His prattle is cut off as Mary hugs him fiercely, her eyes welling all over again. She say something, but her words are muffled by the fabric of his shirt and her tears. After a moment, she meets his bewildered gaze and laughs.  
  
"I don't care what everyone says about you," she says, her voice husky with emotion. "I know your secret, you big softie, but don't worry," she finishes with a wink as he splutters indignantly. "I won't tell."

**Author's Note:**

> Er, so, this is a thing I did for the Lockson Network's writer's challenge on tumblr. The prompt was Mother's Day, and well, this is what I came up with. I hope you enjoy!


End file.
